


Not a Game

by missbeizy



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Angst, Episode: s03e11 Utopia, Episode: s03e12 The Sound of Drums, Episode: s03e13 Last of the Time Lords, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-01
Updated: 2008-03-01
Packaged: 2018-07-15 00:37:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7198232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbeizy/pseuds/missbeizy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor can't recall the last time he shared a bed with someone where there was no practical need for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not a Game

**Author's Note:**

> For versaphile, just because. Just a wee something.
> 
> Note from Versaphile, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Prydonian](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Prydonian). Deciding that it needed to have a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact the e-mail address on [The Prydonian collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/theprydonian/profile).

  
  


*

The Doctor can't recall the last time he shared a bed with someone where there was no practical need for it. Sharing sleeping space implies intimacy and trust deeper than any he's ever shared with his recent companions. Though he has loved them, they have never gotten that close. It is simply not part of the role they play. Intimacy is not something he expects or looks for with them and so his heart, mind, and body have long since taken second place to all else.

That is, until a fob watch opened and spilled a Time Lord back into himself. Since that second the Doctor's hearts haven't stopped racing. The excitement bleeds into his skin and up toward his brain for the first time in a very long time, spiraling and swelling even through his long year of captivity under the object of his attentions. 

It is as if there are two halves of him—the half that has always been, the half that plots and rescues, and the other half that is simply a lonely, guilty Time Lord so far from his original purpose and design that he cannot recall life before without significant effort and pain. 

But now, after the game (which he's lost fantastically, by the way), he is lying in a bed and the Master is just inches away, giving off a heat that calls clear as crystal. 

The Master rolls over and the distance is closed. The Doctor inhales. 

"There are moments," the Master whispers, breath coming hot and humid against the Doctor's face, "when unraveling you slowly and gently seems as if it would be just as cruel as holding you prisoner and humiliating you for a whole year." He grins. "I like that." 

"Don't," the Doctor sighs. "You can't frighten me." 

"This is the illusion of victory, my dear Doctor. The reason I can't frighten you any longer is because you have already lost. What could be more frightening than that?" He smiles. "I slaughtered them. Millions of them. Your beloved humans. I didn't care. I don't care. You do realize that, don't you? That I learned nothing. I changed not at all. I would do it again. And after a year of terror and subjugation, the first thing you did once free was to forgive me. Claim me as your responsibility, and then beg me to stay with you." 

"It meant nothing to you. I know that. I didn't think it would change you. I don't require your conversion." 

"But it would be nice, wouldn't it? If I apologized. Saw the error of my ways. Got down on my knees and worshiped you on your glittering moral high ground." The Master's eyes rake down the Doctor's body. "Oh, you liked that bit about the knees, didn't you?" 

"Leave it." 

"I can't, you know. I don't possess that skill. I've got to pick and pick at weaknesses until they're exhausted. Or dead. You took the drumming, Doctor, and you really ought to learn how to deal with what's come to replace it in my head." 

"And what is that? Never ending attempts at overblown wit?" 

"No," the Master says. His face inches closers with such subtlety that the Doctor doesn't notice until the Master's lips brush his cheek. "I _know you_. I can see your whole existence—your past, present, and future, your thoughts, your body. You were right about one thing; we are the last two left, and now that my head is empty you are all that I've got to fill it." 

The Doctor's breath comes faster. "Don't start this. Please." 

"Isn't this what you wanted? For me to feel you just as you've felt me?" 

"Not like this. Not as a weapon. Not to harm." 

The Master's mouth nuzzles at the Doctor's. He pulls back when he gets no response and then returns, kissing the Doctor with every semblance of gentleness. The Doctor's head spins. He closes his eyes and does not move. 

"Oh, that's not fair. Was that not how you wanted it?" 

"What does it matter to you how I wanted it? My pleasure was never one of your requirements." 

The Master kisses him again, breath and movement joining the press, the wet nudge of a tongue at his teeth and the Master's licking at the inside of his lips, lashing softly at his tongue, trying to draw him out of himself to play. He keeps stubbornly still. 

"Wind me up all you like," the Doctor whispers, when he pulls back. "It's not a game that I'm interested in." 

And he holds to it. The Master tries constantly to use the connection, the awareness, the attraction as a device to manipulate the Doctor's response, at times to try and escape or undermine and at times just for the fun of it. For months after he touches, flirts with, kisses, and grabs the Doctor, trying to draw out those vulnerable moments long enough to exploit them, to get the Doctor off his guard. 

It never works. He keeps trying because it's the only offensive he's capable of. 

Then one day over afternoon tea the Doctor says, "You're only doing this because if you did it the conventional way it wouldn't be a weapon anymore, and what scares you most of all are feelings and actions without destructive ends. Think on that when you remind me of your victories." 

"Sod off," the Master replies. 

Not his finest moment. He eats all of the Doctor's Jaffa Cakes in the name of revenge the next afternoon, making sure to leave crumbs all about the place. He bristles like a riled predator for days when this doesn't make him feel any better and then, in bed next to the Doctor, he finally lets his anger show. 

"I don't understand," he spits. "How else did you expect me to act? You imply that I might actually—that there might be some other purpose to... Are you daft? Why else would I do this, what good would it do to actually—" 

He breaks off mid-sentence when the Doctor grabs him around the waist and pulls him over the Doctor's body. He flails to get away, but the Doctor wraps two legs around the back of his knees and holds him tightly. Growling, his hands fall against the bed on either side of the Doctor's shoulders. 

"Forgotten what it's like to be there?" the Doctor murmurs. "Come on." Lucy pops up in his mind clear as flame, all red dress and pale skin. The Master's face twists. "Oh, don't be bashful. You always prided yourself on being shameless. Or perhaps you never…oh, perhaps it's been longer than I suspected." 

"You will regret that," the Master growls. 

The Doctor slides one hand down the Master's spine, and then gently rubs the hard rounded flesh of his backside. "One day you'll learn to shut your mouth and open your mind." 

"Let me go." He will not be manipulated. 

The Doctor's straying hand finds the space between them, then the space between the Master's legs. The resulting stutter across the Master's skin and thoughts brings a grin to the Doctor's lips. 

"Stop." That comes just a little weaker, and the Doctor's grin twitches. 

He squirms, grinding their erections together, watches the play of muscle and tension across the Master's face. "Not a game," he says, as the Master's shoulders tick down and their bodies come together. When the Master begins to speak, the Doctor grabs him about the neck and kisses him, hard, and doesn't stop kissing him until he's breathless and thrusting back. 

The first whimper and gasp from the Master's lips come as he does, bucking and twitching inside his trousers against the Doctor's thigh. He wilts just long enough to get his breathing back, then slumps off to the Doctor's side, still half draped across his chest. 

He's limp and damp and flushed, looking so good that the Doctor's still hard cock throbs just at the sight. He opens his eyes and stares a stare that could melt glass. He rises up on his hands and knees, then straight to his knees, whipping his shirt over his head and then crawling out of his trousers. The half-dried half-damp evidence of his orgasm is speckled around his spent cock. 

_Sod it, then. When in bloody fucking Rome._

"Going to finish what you started?" he taunts nastily, straddling the Doctor's hips, and the Doctor's mouth goes dry. He pushes the Doctor's trousers down around his thighs. The Doctor palms the Master's hips, tugging him forward. 

A quick search in the bedside table yields the necessary accessory, which the Master snatches haughtily from his fingers and then applies slowly. Very slowly, until the Doctor is leaking in the Master's slick fist, and only then does that beautiful, lean body bend and sink, knees sprawling on the sheets to take it as deep as it can go. 

The Doctor holds his breath for the first minute and then lets it all out on a groan, clutching the Master's hipbones and slamming up into the tight, slippery clench again and again. At some point the Master's hands flail for purchase and the Doctor grabs them with his own and pushes. 

It's all a blur of pressure and squirming, and somehow the Master's hard again, flushed cock tapping his thigh with every rise and fall. The Doctor takes it in his hand and holds the Master still, fucking him hard and fast and pumping his cock to the rhythm. He sobs and comes, arse spasming around the Doctor, who groans, pushes, and spills himself inside the Master's body. 

He sits there still impaled, satiated hitches of breath filling the air, hands still wound around the Doctor's, and grins. "Not a game, then."  
  


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